During those seemingly endless days of working from home in the midst of the first lockdown, we decided that enough was enough. My husband and I were squeezed around the dining table, one eye on our laptops and the other on our restless toddler. Pregnant with our second child, I was excited, intensely nauseous and nervous about how we might cope with a newborn under the current strict social restrictions, and later the extortionate costs of having two children in a nursery.
By that point, we had lived in London for almost 15 years and owned a tatty but much-loved flat in Lewisham. Our time there had been a blast, mostly – we were happy in our careers, with a great support network of friends – but somewhere between parenthood and the pandemic, the inconveniences we’d always accepted as part and parcel of city living increasingly gnawed at us. The walls of our windowless bathroom were constantly damp, the ceiling mildewy. The concrete rectangle of our balcony seemed bleak compared to the families we saw on social media splashing in paddling pools in their gardens. The grating creaks of the lift right next to our front door disturbed our sleep all night long.
Ours wasn’t a unique situation. According to the estate agent Hamptons, 2022 saw more than 150,000 households leave London for the commuter belt and beyond in search of space, peace and quiet. As for so many thirtysomethings, coronavirus was the catalyst for a reevaluation of how we wanted to live and raise our children. We agreed it was time for somewhere new. Deciding where to move was never particularly difficult, because we had always planned to return to my beloved hometown, Coventry. Living in the countryside or close to the sea had obvious appeal, but being landlocked was preferable if it meant being geographically closer to family and friends we had desperately missed during our time away.
My earliest memories are full of grandparents, aunties and uncles popping into each other’s houses for chats over tea and cake while the cousins played together, and I wanted that for my children, too. Affordability and space was also key. Buying or renting a home in London, or its surrounding towns, was comically unrealistic, but in Coventry we could stretch to a modest house with an extra bedroom for our new addition, and a small garden.
It was a no-brainer, really, but it was a while before we took the plunge. We certainly weren’t alone in relocating, but there was an unshakeable sense that leaving London was a failure of sorts. We’d arrived as optimistic young adults desperate to get among that vibrant version of the city we’d seen on telly and although living there sometimes felt like a battle, we were oddly proud of how long we’d managed to stay. Was going back to where we started admitting defeat? Slightly embarrassingly, there was also a fear of missing out, both socially and professionally. We’d spent years working hard in the live-music industry, burning both ends of the candle at gigs, clubs and festivals. Even though the hedonistic sleepless nights had long been replaced by the exhaustion of our first baby and more sedate jobs, I was irrationally panicked by the idea of missing friends and experiences – of letting my old life go.
We needn’t have worried. Our new home is a rented terrace in the northwest of the city, and to us it feels nothing short of palatial. We open cupboards and marvel when nothing immediately topples out. Moving the sofa in order to sit down for tea at the dining table is no longer necessary. There are stairs and plentiful windows and a garden where our landlord has planted a rhododendron we are learning to care for. Watching the kids excitedly open the front door to our loved ones and proudly showing them round felt very special, especially after the isolation and claustrophobia of life in a flat during Covid. Our oldest friends live a short drive away and making weekend plans that don’t involve a rail-replacement bus across London is an unanticipated luxury. Financially, a weight has lifted off our shoulders, too, thanks to cheaper childcare options and the privilege of having willing, kind parents who are eager to spend quality time with their grandchildren.
One thing I didn’t bargain for was the Proustian rush of long-forgotten memories triggered by the sights and sounds of the city. From our new bedroom window, just past the apple tree in our neighbour’s garden, I can see the road where two of my oldest friends grew up, the scene of many sleepovers and sneaking sips of booze skimmed from our parents’ drinks cabinets. Serving on a vegetable stall in Coventry Indoor Market was my first Saturday job in the mid-90s, and pushing the double-buggy past its old location suddenly invoked that introverted, awkward teenager I was when I started there, petrified of being shouted at for getting my weights and sums wrong, but mesmerised by the calls of the other traders, the hot, vinegary smell of a cone of chips at lunchtime, the sweet, strong tea on freezing mornings.
I started to notice that, in Coventry, I felt closer to my late grandparents, too. They died while we were living in London, and even though I’d visited regularly when they were well, and more often as illness took hold of them, I constantly felt guilty for not being more involved with their care. It was crushing not to be with my grandad in his final hours – he deteriorated so rapidly that there was no time – and I only just made it to my grandma’s deathbed thanks to a sympathetic boss and a crosscountry dash. Now, there’s a strange comfort in catching the same bus into town that they used and remembering the times we took it together when I was young. I imagine them walking around the shops, Grandma with her handwritten list, Grandad with his zipped beige canvas bag, and us all meeting in the shopping centre café on Saturday mornings. I take my kids to the park closest to their old house, pointing it out on the way and telling them about the themed birthday cakes Grandma made us all, and the rhubarb Grandad grew in the garden to stew with crumble.
I’ve painted an idyllic picture of a grand homecoming, but it would be disingenuous to say there haven’t been downsides. Commuting to London by train once a week for our jobs seemed perfectly reasonable before we attempted it. My husband bought a bike so he could cycle to the station, and I had visions of catching up on emails while sipping coffee, ploughing through my reading list, and finally opening that meditation app. Unfortunately, the reality so far is that it’s an extortionately expensive endurance test. It requires patience for the neverending delays, serenity on the packed concourse during the tense wait for your platform to be announced, humility for the undignified pelt to the train, and determination to find a seat where you can wolf down an overpriced sandwich. And, the only remnants of my husband’s bike when he returned to Coventry station after his very first commute, were a shattered lock and a long wait for a crime number.
Not all the evocations of my life before London were a wholly welcome return, either. Walking through the underpass I spent a year of my early teenage life hanging out in, I’m reminded of the stench of Benson & Hedges cigarettes clinging to my school uniform, the helpless terror of trying and failing to stop a close friend being beaten up, of being shattered by hurtful comments about my appearance from the unsuitable older boy I fancied. I worry that my kids will resent this move to suburbia when they’re older, that they’ll struggle to understand the reasons why we left behind the opportunities the capital offers.
We will always miss London, but we know that Coventry is the best place for us right now. We’ve thrown ourselves into its incredible culture, introducing the kids to the classics from the two-tone era, showing them the regeneration of the city after the Blitz, exploring its parks as well as the independent businesses of its concrete jungle. The diversity of the local school is a reflection of the city as a whole, and we are heartened that our children will grow and learn with friends from different cultures. Now I can work happily, listening to them laughing with my parents in the room next door, and it reminds me that for our family there really is no place like home.
